We Are All Screwed
by Pancake Pet
Summary: A day in the life Gary "Roach" Sanderson IF fangirls were allowed to write the CoD series. This parody people! Means it's supposed to be outlandish! Rated M for a reason! Contains Slash... Seriously! Flames will be used to heat my home! Reviews are loved.


**Warnings: Slash, swearing, crack, Original Character, major Out Of Character, and a general lack of writing direction.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Call of Duties- elsewise, everything would be pretty, and witty, and GAY! I do however own my friend, so technically I own her Original Character; Taylor Griffin.**

x-x- -x-x

Private Taylor Griffin sat for what felt like hours in his small, military issued bunk-bed; his vibrant olive green eyes glazed over in complete concentration, as he stared down at an old copy of Hustler. And while the outdated publication offered no real entertainment value; as the young man had glazed at the buxom beauties _years_ before now, he was mildly amused by the wild pleas from his slightly older bunk-mate; Gary "Roach" Sanderson, AKA his best-friend.

"Come on, Taylor!" Roach desperately pleaded once more; only this time, he clasped his gloved fingers together in an adorable manner. "I have to return that thing… Who knows what _he'll_ do if he finds out?"

"—Honestly, Gar…" Taylor cut him off with an obnoxious scoff. "I don't care, and I couldn't care any less. He's an old man, what's he seriously going to do?" Dropping the magazine onto the clean floor, the ravenette assumed the prone position. "-Break his leg trying to get this from me? I mean, come on, Sanderson… You're way too scary." Propping his drooping head onto his hands, the mischievous man-child smirked.

Just as Roach opened his mouth to protest, the bedroom door swung open to reveal their less than happy Commanding Officer. "Where in the _fuck_ is my mag!" He snarled loudly, as he crossed the threshold in literally five steps or less, and snatched Taylor up by the scruff of his neck. "I know you took it, you little shit. Where is it?"

As the older man continued to his ruthless assault on Taylor's poor neck, Roach began to doubt if it was really a good idea to tell the ravenette were the Hustler stash was, in the first place. "Uh- Sir…" He cleared his throat when he was snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of his friend being choked out on the floor. "I-I tell you where the books are, if you don't kill him..." Grinning sheepishly, he added. "I need him for target practice."

One new hiding spot, five apologizes, three stitches, and five "I told you so's" later, both males found themselves in the mess hall. "Okay, fine. I admit it... I'm a bit of a masochist." Holding his hands up in a defensive manner, the ravenette continued to say. "But, then again, aren't we all? I mean… were in the military for Christ's sake! This is pleasure-pain central." As he put heavy emphasis on the pleasure part, Taylor crossed his eyes in an attempt to mimic what he thought to be 'Roach's sex-face.'

Gary chuckled at his friend's attempt at making light of his very recent, and very humiliating, ass-whooping. "Yeah, you're a masochist, alright… Why else do you think it's a good idea to taunt _every_ single C.O that comes prowling around here?"

"—especially the old ones. Don't forget them oldies." Taylor quickly added, before scarfing down his plate of mysterious meat. "Ugh… This is just like the crap they used to serve in grade-school." Making a face at his plate, the finicky ravenette pushed the dish to the center of the table.

"The old ones seem to kick your ass the most… Got an old man fetish?" Raising his eyebrow humorously, Roach laughed as he only had a split-second to dodge a random 'edible' projectile. "Hey! I was just joking! No need to get all sensitive." As he checked his clothing for any sign of wasted food, Gary found himself furrowing his brows in disgust; as he just noticed a _very_ obvious white stain on his collar. "What the hell is this?"

Taking a moment to halt his pouting, Taylor appeared at his friend's side to further examine the bright blemish. "Ew… That's definitely not lunch." Pointing at the stain accusingly, the ravenette took several steps back. "You my friend have been a victim of-"

Suddenly, before Taylor could finish, a chorus line of vulgarly outfitted dancers appeared. And as Roach, and everyone in the cafeteria for that matter, gaped in horror; each and every one of the coryphées removed their long trench-coats to reveal what could only be described as a hooker's uniform. From head to foot, the only linens that were recognizable were their miniskirts, torn-fishnets, and pencil-thin tube-tops, and just when everyone thought it couldn't get worse, the garish ensemble was completed by a pair of hideous, clear stilettos.

"You've been a victim of that _**sex-monkey greeeeeease**_!" One of the dancers hollered, as the rest of them broke out into an ill-choreographed series of twirls, steps, and high-kicks. Just when the dancing became unbearable, and people actually got up and left the mess hall, as they had decided that no meal was worth _this_ debauchery.

"Oh, yes. That my dear, is jizz…" Singing in a high, falsetto tone, Taylor spun around until he was enveloped into the crowd of people who were now all attempting to do the robot. In a matter of seconds, the ravenette returned in a matching outfit, and not only that, but he always managed to pull a few dancers towards his mortified buddy.

If Roach thought that this whole scene was bizarre before, it got a hell of a lot weirder when he noticed that lieutenant Simon fucking Riley was participating… Hell, it wasn't even a stretch to say that the older man was _enjoying _this, and if his dancing said anything, he was _really, really_ loving this.

Just when Gary was going to get up from his chair, all the dancers began to scream "JIZZ" at the top of their lungs, and all the while that was happening, Ghost suddenly dropped into a Chinese split, and began to sing an off-key version of 'Karma Chameleon.'

And soon enough, everyone in the room was singing along, and dancing… It was all fun and games. And Roach would be a hard-pressed tight-ass if he didn't let Ghost pull him out of his seat for a full-on grinding session.

The party raged on for a full three hours, until Captain MacTavish _finally_ returned from his Solo Operation. When the man in question had arrived, he busted the door open as if he had just uncovered some secret drug-ring that he had been staking out for months without success. "What in the _fuck _is going on here?"

The record scratched, bringing Abba's "Dancing Queen" to a screeching halt, and all the enthusiastic party-goers fled the room in every which direction… kind of like roaches when you turn on the light—speaking of those buggers. "Roach, get your arse over here…" Pointing at his feet, the furious captain waited impatiently for his lap-dog.

"Uh—Yes, sir?" Roach stuttered, while fidgeting with the glittery-pink feather-boa that Ghost had thrown over his neck moments earlier.

Staring down at the offensive piece of fabric, MacTavish hissed. "What's the meaning of this? What're you wearing, kid! Why the fuck wasn't I invited?" Those questions came in a quick roll of punches, and poor Gary almost didn't have enough time to process everything that was being said to him; luckily for him, his posse was there to handle his shit.

"Oh, Tav, babe. You need to mellow out…" Ghost cooed, as he winked at the captain seductively. "You were away… We got bored. Roach has god knows whose spunk on his shirt…" Shrugging casually at the outlandishness of his statement, the masked-man slipped away to spike the punchbowl.

"_All is fair in love, war, and random parties…" _would be his defense when someone woke up in the wrong bed.

"What…?" MacTavish gawked at Roach with a dumbfounded expression. "You have WHAT on your shirt, lad?"

Returning from the conga-line, Taylor threw his arms protectively over Roach's shoulders. "Like Simon said… Gar-bear has spunk on his shirt. You know- Jizz, sperm, cum, semen, seed, ejaculate, sex-monkey grease, seminal fluid, milt…"

Deadpanning, MacTavish waved off the Private's bitchy behavior. "I heard that… It's just- What the fuck… You're still wearing the shirt? Why the hell is that?"

Roach shrugged. "Cause it's mine."

"!" Both Ghost and Taylor shrieked at Gary's declaration. "That's so disgusting!" As the two held onto each other, the former began to shake violently… Apparently, past memories of his time as a prostitute were _coming_ back to haunt him... (No pun intended)

"S-Simon, are you okay?" As Taylor asked that question, he stared deeply into the masked-man's uncovered eyes. "I've never seen you so-" Suddenly, both of the super vulnerable ukes\bottoms were making out… Not any of that weak mouth-mouth shit either; no I'm talking about full-on tongue and panting. As they both fought to rid themselves of their clothing, the now crowded hall was ablaze with lust and excitement. And with comments like 'grab his ass' and 'fuck him raw!' flying through the air, it took every bit of restraint for the new couple to keep from shagging right there on the floor.

"Ahhhh! My eyes!" A random, unfortunate viewer screamed… but, of course, no one listened; as they had warned the jackass a _thousand times_, that random occurrences that took place in the recesses of 141's HQ were anything but Homophobe friendly.

As Ghost lowered Taylor to the ground for some hot man-on-man action, MacTavish barked. "ENOUGH!" As his heavy accent rung through the air, for the second time that day, a record scratched; though, this time the ruined record was Roach's only good copy of The Rolling Stones' "Start me up."

"Aw, damn it to hell!" Gary exclaimed, as he went off to find the record-player that defiled his beautiful vinyl.

"Enough? I was just getting started." Ghost smirked, as he removed Taylor's gloves with his teeth alone.

Gritting his teeth at Ghost's rebellious attitude, MacTavish pointed at him like a mad Meme-cat. "Oh no, you're not! Simon Riley, you're grounded for life!"

Pausing his ministrations, which earned him a groan from Taylor, Ghost felt himself on the verge of tears. "What? That's no fair, Tav!" Rubbing his misty eyes with the back of his hand, the lieutenant began to wail like a small child. "You're so mean, Johnny!" Burying his face into the crook of Taylor's neck, Simon continued to bawl out of control.

"Aw, you made him cry! You're horrible, captain!" Taylor growled, as he petted his half-aroused lover. "I never want to see you around here again, you- Stupid Meany-Face!"

MacTavish only growled in response. _"Bitch..."_

It was now Roach's turn to cry, because as soon as he returned, the rest of his prized vinyls were destroyed by General Sheppard; who had been watching this whole shebang from the sidelines.

"I've had enough of this shit!" The old man snapped, as he trotted into the spotlight; his feet sounded loud and unforgiving… much like horse feet, only cleaner- I think? "All you pansies have five minutes to fuck, or get the fuck out of my face."

And so, everyone did the former. MacTavish was fucking Ghost, who was fucking Roach, who was Fucking Taylor, who was just happy that for once, he wasn't going to be horribly maimed by the writer.

**-x- The End -x-**

**Author's note: I swear, I'm not under the influence of any **_**illegal**_** substances, my friend and I were RPing, and well… Neither of us could stay serious for long. XD LOL! **

**Like usual. If you loved it, please review it? If you hate it… Why'd you read it? But- Review it anyways. **** Panny signing off! **


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